


Homunculus

by Melisma



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Medical Horror, Speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melisma/pseuds/Melisma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The next of the Horsemen makes himself known. Now with extended first chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge

**Author's Note:**

> So I have spent the last week in and out of bed with flu, with only these archives and various online forums to keep me company. This is the product of a fevered delusional mind high on theories and wild mass guessing and I don't even know what's going on here. Unbeta'd.

_"Ichabod?"_

"Katrina."

_"We have little time, my love. The next Horseman has woken."_

"Where is he? Which is he?"

_"The Bible will tell you. You must hurry, my love. He works in shadow even now."_

 

These facts are known about Lydia Haywell.

She is twenty-nine years old, an accountant by trade. She and four coworkers own a small firm; their clients are mostly students and young couples looking to make ends meet.

Lydia Haywell is a patriot, and proud of it. The Stars and Stripes hang from the flagpole planted outside her house, raised up and brought down again every day like clockwork (weather permitting).

Lydia Haywell is married, to a good man with a steady job of his own. They have been dating on and off since sophomore year of high school, and when he finally (finally!) proposes after his last promotion, a great deal of money changes hands among their friends and the congratulations are liberally interspersed with variations of "what took you guys so long?", which the then-engaged couple bear with good grace and goofy grins.

Lydia Haywell is missing. It has been over twenty-four hours. Her last known location was near the Four Trees grove.

Search parties are sent out. Posters go up. Her husband, whose work has taken him abroad, is notified.

There will be no trace of Lydia Haywell until two days later.

By then, it will be too late.

 

Abbie Mills, Lieutenant, Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department, has seen and been in what can only be described as "weird-ass shit". There is quite frankly no other way to put getting saddled by a centuries-old Oxford teacher (turned Redcoat, turned turncoat, turned spy, turned Rip Van Winkle); witnessing beheadings by a man himself beheaded ("and shot"); being in a shoot out with said walking beheader; seeing horned demon things (again, apparently); and crispy crazy witch's (walking) corpses, to name but a few.

Ichabod Crane, said Oxford teacher, unofficial partner, and resident moocher (he's already gone through a month's worth of groceries and she's dreading her Internet and cable bills) would likely try to use a more proper phrase, with too many syllables, because he's that kind of guy and modern slang isn't his strong point.

Abbie insists on "weird-ass shit". It's short, concise and to the point ("very much so, Lieutenant, but the vulgarity is unbecoming for a young lady--" "Can it, Crane." "... Can what?") and she won't hear of anything else.

And then they find Lydia Haywell, and suddenly "weird-ass shit" just doesn't cut it anymore, because this is just so much worse.

 

  
At first, for a blinding blissful second, Abbie Mills sees the room and dismisses the contents as props. Models, with little engines and rotors and wires to give the impression of life. There is no way that can be a real person in there--

And then there's the smell, the horrible unmistakable odour of raw meat, sinew and muscle and skin cut and arranged just so, and the transparency and heaving of the lungs and the pulsing of the veins and arteries strung up like tinsel and nerve endings like cobwebs, oh God that's a _heart_ that's a _Goddamn heart just sitting out there_ and **why the fuck is it still beating?!**

Her boots bump against something wet and squishy and she looks down instinctively and yeah, that's intestine, okay, she's going to step outside for just a minute...

Abbie has just finished reacquainting herself with her lunch when Crane says the worst thing about it all, what she just couldn't pinpoint before heaving.

"She's still alive. Mother of God, this poor wretch is still alive."

Breakfast joins lunch on the floor.

 

  
The note clearly knows who Crane is, why he's here, what's his purpose. It's printed on letter size paper, folded neatly in half to stand on the bloody table, encased in a large Ziplock bag to protect it from stains.

"To Mssr. Ichabod Crane, late of Merton College, of the University of Oxford, of the country of England, and of Sleepy Hollow, of the State of New York, of these United States of America, Greetings.

"Dear Sir,

"No doubt by now you have borne witness to the fruits of my latest scientific endeavours, having found myself out of practice, as it were, these last few years.

"I can confirm for your lady that what surround you both is indeed the remains of a woman known as Lydia Heywell, as the subject told me repeatedly before I had its vocal cords severed. The screaming, you see, while not entirely off-putting to me, caused some agitation in my assistants. I trust, as a man of learning yourself, you will understand the necessity of good help, especially with an operation as delicate as this.

"The subject proved to be a white female of childbearing age in excellent physical and mental health at the onset of our dissections. This is no longer the case, as you have undoubtably surmised, but nor is its sufferings at an end.

"For proof, please direct your gaze to the contents of the shelf immediately beneath this missive. You will also find a large knife of ritualistic pagan origin. The latter pertains to the final part of my message to you, Mssr. Crane.

"I understand you share a preternatural bond with one of my brothers, sir. Therefore, I leave this choice to you and you alone. Should you wish to be merciful, to end Lydia Haywell's agonies, take the knife. Stab the heart. She will die, and perhaps consider you her saviour. Or not. The mind was rather nonsensical by that point in the flensing.

"The knife has been ensorcelled so that only you or I may bear it without suffering immense pain. Nothing compared to our Mistress Haywell, but something to avoid nonetheless. Of course, my family has pledged not to interfere; there's not much skull left to make it worthwhile for one of my brothers, and the other two simply cannot care less - not their jurisdiction, they claim.

"The decision is yours, Mssr. Do be quick about it?

"I remain, sir, yours, etc.

"Murrain

"P.S. You may have wondered how I ascertained the subject was of childbearing age. The second drawer holds your answers. I estimate some eight to nine weeks' gestation, no more.

"P.P.S. I enclose a recording of my observations throughout the procedure. My apologies for the quality of the video; my assistants do good work, but this left something to be desired."

The knife is a slim, tapered thing, with a slender needle-pointed blade and simple unembellished hilt. It resembles a dirk, and might have been one but for the spherical shapes of the hand guard and the pommel. Crane has seen its like before, yet the name eludes him now...

He concentrates on the knife ( _it bears no embellishments, no engravings, not a line of text or rune or symbol in sight; yet designed such for a singular purpose, this is clearly a weapon_ ) because Lydia Haywell, the unfortunate soul, is still looking at him with eyes protruding from a carefully, cruelly flenched skull -- she lacks a tongue, lacks a jawbone -- and inarticulate as she is, communicates with the last avenue open to her.

The eyes are the windows to the soul, it is said. There is madness there, and pain, and above all else and overriding plea: **_End this._**

"Crane," Abbie is saying somewhere to his left. "You don't have to--"

But he does, and they both know it. His sense of duty, of honour _(of guilt)_ will not allow otherwise. 

A handkerchief is produced from his coat _(fine muslin, delicate stitches, his initials worked in white in a corner, an example of Katrina's labours, a token of her love)_ , draped over the hilt. He picks up the blade, tests the heft of it. Is only mildly surprised when Abbie's hand, small and dark, wraps around his own as she leans against his back. Her other hand alights on his shoulder, presses lightly. 

"I was going to say, 'You don't have to do this alone'."

Her voice is shaking, chiding, and he nods, wordless.

Together they bring it down, pierce the red ruin atop the chest of drawers. 

Silence. 

But not before they catch the glimpse of pure gratitude in those disembodied eyes. 

 

Abbie leaves the room, picking her way past stilled lungs and wing-spread ribcage and snaking entrails. She is speaking to Captain Irving, requesting a forensics team ("... and make sure they haven't eaten yet. Yes, it's that bad."). Ichabod lingers a moment longer. He would like to close Mistress Haywell's eyes, some small act of respect due to a woman who suffered far more than any mortal ought; alas, Murrain's work (and the name is almost certainly an alias) has made even that token gesture impossible. 

He closes the drawer holding her maimed and ruined skull instead, a fleeting glimpse into the one below (and there is something there that's small and foetal and foetid just a flicker then it's gone), turns to the knife. 

The knife itself he pulls out and up, places it gently on the metal surface. His handkerchief he withdraws next, unwinding it from the handle, and examined carefully for any sign of soiling or damage; satisfied, Crane folds it away with care. His gaze returns to the seemingly innocuous blade on the tabletop. As he does so the name comes to him.

_Misericorde_ , borrowed from the French, itself derived from the Latin misericordia. 

Essentially, a mercy stroke. 

How very fitting.

 


	2. Camera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watch, and learn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ow. Um. I worry this might not be up to par. Also, there's bugs. And inferred surgery. And I may need to raise the rating, because. Yeah.

The forensics team arrives, little more than a trio of repurposed local medics (plus one sheriff's department photographer) garbed in bulky white coveralls with eye shields and face masks, tasked with retrieving and storing and preserving the body (or remains, in this case, and Ichabod does not envy them) until coroner and pathologists can be called upon to lend their expertise. 

He greets one of them with a nod, a dark-haired woman who's encountered her share of oddities responding to their cases. She gives him a wry smile, no doubt knowing that if Crane's here, whatever is inside will be bizarre. 

Ichabod considers going over, to warn her of just what it is they are about to face. He is about to do so when Abbie's angry voice stops him. 

"Captain, what the hell is he doing here?"

Crane frowns, follows her gaze. There is Frank Irving, department captain, and behind him is... Ah. 

'He' turns out to be Detective Luke Morales. Brash, overconfident and uncouth, Morales has been a perpetual irritant in Crane's new life, no less due to his latent jealousy -- Abbie had ended their courtship in anticipation of her relocating to Virginia, plans which Crane's arrival promptly derailed. Combined with Ichabod's subsequent inclusion as a consultant for Abbie's cases, and Abbie's refusal to rekindle their previous relationship...

Well, it was almost understandable. It didn't make Morales any easier to deal with, though. 

"I heard you found Lydia Haywell," Luke says, and if there's an undercurrent of anxiety in his tone that's barely audible, neither Abbie nor Captain Irving pay it any mind. 

"Detective Morales is the officer in charge of the Haywell case, Mills," Frank reminds her. "Have you found her or not?"

"Yeah," Abbie replies. "She's inside-- damnit, Luke! The hell was that for?"

Morales had nearly knocked Abbie over in his attempt to storm the derelict building, and only Ichabod Crane is close enough to grab onto him and stop his charge. 

"I have to see what happened to her, Abbie."

"That's Lieutenant Mills to you, Detective Morales." Captain Irving disapproves of blatant breaks in procedure and protocol, and Morales' behaviour thus far is not winning him any favours. 

"Sir, with all due respect--"

"No, you don't." 

Abbie's voice is firm and that, perhaps, is what get both her superior and subordinate to give her their full attention. 

"It's bad in there, Luke," Abbie continues, steady. "I didn't think it -- she -- was even still human. Not after what was done to her." She's quiet then, the voice of reason, of a friend trying to spare another the horror. But Ichabod has known her too long, stood beside this woman through hell and high water and (in his eyes, at least) there are a thousand tiny subtle cues that combined tell just how all this has affected her. 

But Morales is stubborn, and brushes off her concern and warning like so much dust. He twists his arm in a fluid motion up and over and down, breaks free of Crane's grip ( _a neat little trick, he must get Abbie to show him -- but later_ ) and resumes his charge. 

_Once more into the breach..._ Ichabod sighs, and follows. 

The point and Morales' quest are made moot a moment later when one of the orderlies stumbles out the door, green about the gills, and whilst making a beeline for the ambulance dodges one obstacle only to run headlong into Morales, bounce off, and wind up vomiting all over the luckless detective's shoes. 

Morales' yell of mingled disgust and dismay is worth the brief, tiny vindictive smirk on Abbie's face. She tamps down the expression, turns to her captain. 

"I thought you warned them?"

"Must've slipped my mind." Butter wouldn't melt in the man's mouth, Ichabod thinks. 

And then the female medic is in the doorway, annoyance radiating off her in waves, asking if Crane could please come and collect that damn knife for evidence because it's not enough that the place looks like a psycho's lair but now Jim's touched it and he's still twitching on the floor -- the camera's fine, Captain, thank you so much for your _concern_ \-- and Crane, why hadn't he said anything about freaky cursed objects like that?

It's all Ichabod can do to apologize profusely to the good Mistress Rivers ("It's Michelle, Crane." "That would be improper, Miss Rivers."). 

And if it makes Abbie smile even for a moment ("He always like this, LT?" "Nah. Used to be worse."), well, so much the better for them both. 

 

It takes less than ten seconds into the recording on the memory card before Abbie slaps the stop button, ejects the card, and hunts down their resident computer technician to "clean the damn file up. If we have to watch this, the least we can do is make sure we don't get headaches from all the snow." 

Ichabod is uncertain what inclement weather has to do with a prerecorded event (surely, there was no chance of flurries actively manifesting indoors?). Perhaps another instance of modern argot, a word repurposed from its traditional meaning...

It takes ten minutes for Abbie to return, slightly ashen-faced. Luke Morales is at her heels, a mix of smug satisfaction and genuine concern written across his face that lose out to an air of uncertainty when he notices where they are, followed by a look of pure venom at Crane. Ichabod pretends not to notice, focusing on Abbie. 

"Lieutenant Mills, is there a reason for Detective Morales' presence?" The query earns him another glower from the detective sitting opposite.

"Luke has a point." Abbie finishes setting up her laptop computer. "Lydia Haywell is his case. He should see it."

_And I am too tired to argue by this point_ , goes unsaid. 

"Captain authorized it," Morales adds. He does not pick up on Abbie's (well-masked) exhaustion. Ichabod squashes the urge to slam the irritating rake face first into the hardwood surface of the table. Diplomacy is needed, not the blunt Army tactics of which Morales is so fond. 

Then the video is on screen, and Crane is surprise to see the image disrupted by thousands of black dots turning the view grainy. He's come to expect the high quality of reproduction prevalent in these modern times, so this is an unwelcome surprise. 

Morales, as is his wont, makes his displeasure known. "What's with the snow? Did you take it over to--"

"Yeah, I did," Abbie's voice is uncharacteristically tight, and that gets Morales to shut up. "And that's not snow."

"The hell--?"

"Just watch."

They do. 

 

Lydia Haywell's death is not quick, nor easy, nor by any means is it painless. (Is not, in fact, shown at all given what transpires, but by unspoken agreement this is not mentioned to Morales.)

_"Day one, 1300 hours. Have acquired subject--"_

_"What the hell is this? Let me go!"_

_"-- A white female of predominately Anglo-Saxon descent--"_

_"Hey! Talking to you!"_

_"-- Of superior physical health. How would you describe your psychological well-being?"_

_"Get me out-- Wait, what?"_

_"Do you have any mental health issues?"_

_"Aside from my going mental on your ass when I get out of this, you Goddamn bastard?!"_

_"... Subject is of sound mind. Estimated age between twenty five and thirty years..."_

It went on like that for some time. Lydia Haywell was strapped to the table in a makeshift surgical suite. Her interrogator was a vaguely human figure, what could have been a man (or woman) clad in the long white coat so emblematic of those working in the scientific and medical communities of this day and age. The details were lost in the enormous cloud of buzzing, writhing winged insects that veiled the suspect from head to waist. 

As they watched, a fly walked onto the lens of the recording device, neatly impeding nearly all view of the room beneath. The figure's voice, a strange gurgle neither male nor female, sounded amused. 

_"I do believe you're blocking the camera, dear."_

The fly moved to the left. 

_"A bit more."_

The fly cleared the lens. 

_"Very good. Keep that angle. And keep it steady._

_"Now. We will begin with a study of the torso and the musculature thereof, with focus on the thorax, and a look at the major and minor pectoral muscles, trapezius muscles and neck muscle. Scalpel, please."_

_"The fuck are you doing?!"_

_"Thank you. We will proceed by the standard method."_

_"You're not using that on me!!"_

_"Making first incision."_

_"Oh my **GAAAAAAAWWWWWWWW** \--"_

The frame shakes, drops suddenly with an alarming lurch. The cloud of flies jerk and swerve. Haywell's scream is shrill and deafening, even through the tinny speakers on Abbie's laptop...

Silenced, by a slap to the unwilling subject's face. 

_"Kindly keep quiet. You are disturbing my assistants."_

_"Bb-bass--"_

_"Cease your blubbering. I have no need for your voice."_

"Excuse me," Morales says, and Crane starts in surprise. So engrossed in the recording, he'd forgotten the detective was there -- it was if one of the chairs had suddenly gained the temerity to speak. 

Abbie pauses the video, glances sidelong at him. "Trash can's over here." She nudges the metal bin over towards him with her foot. 

"Uh, no thanks. Is he using bugs?"

"Yep."

"Trained bugs."

"Uh-huh."

"With camcorders."

"Seems that way."

"That makes no sense!"

"Welcome to our world," Ichabod snorts. 

"Hey, I wasn't asking you!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still think I need to raise the rating. Also, if anyone has suggestions for how this could go, please LMK? I have a vague idea on how to continue, but despite all my best efforts I've not finished a multi-chapter fic yet.

**Author's Note:**

> The problem with the Horsemen as depicted on the show is that our Headless fellow bears the mark of Conquest, takes heads and shoots things up like War, and is called Death. Someone really didn't do the research over at the writers' table, or more likely they didn't care. I figure since Pestilence and Plague generally replace Conquest (shunted under War?) in most fictional works then Famine can take it under his portfolio. It made sense in my head. Sorry.


End file.
